


and that someone is you.

by discodancing



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst with a Happy Ending, Band Fic, Drug Use, Frontman!Dream, Identity Issues, Internalized Homophobia, Journalist!George, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, NOT RPF - SMP characters only, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, can i make it any more obvious..., not anything hard rlly mainly just weed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29896125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discodancing/pseuds/discodancing
Summary: “and your new song?” the reporter asks. there’s a glint in his sunglasses.dream wants to rip them off of his face and eat him alive. he wants to be close to him, to feel him because he looks like air resides within him.“i don’t know.” dream shrugs. “it’s a song for someone.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 11





	1. watch what happens next.

**Author's Note:**

> here is my attempt at a fun multichaptered fic! not sure how long it will be and when it will be done but i am going to try my best to finish it! some notes to remember:
> 
> —smp characters only! im pulling their personalities from the source material not the real people, so i don’t really classify it as rpf. along that vein i will not be using their real names unless their names are part of their brand (ie george & karl).
> 
> —if george or dream ever express discomfort towards shipping works of their characters i will remove this immediately! 
> 
> (the song for this chapter is ‘watch what happens next’ by waterparks!)

It is not fun to be a spectacle, stared at like one is other than human. The stage is a display case where a perfect person must stand, poised and perfect and made completely of plastic. It is not the ideal life, but the life of a Ken Doll comes with money and ease and desire. It comes with anything selfish humans could ever ask for, and yet, somehow, it is still not enough. 

Dream feels that, just maybe, humans are built to want what they will never have, no matter what it may be. He has so much, he has everything, and somehow he still wants what will always be inches from his reach. It’s light at the end of a tunnel that will never end, and it’s the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow that only he can see. Everything hurts because everything tells him he must be what he is not, and that he must exist for entertainment. He never wanted to be entertainment and he certainly never wanted to be placed on a stage, made to sing his words to people who don’t even listen to them. They scream his words back into his face, telling him that they mean what he didn’t intend them to. They’re stealing them, running away with all of his deepest thoughts like it’s some sort of robbery. 

He hates them, he hates them so much. There’s nothing they haven’t stolen from him, and he tries to make that clear through the lyrics of his songs. They seem not to understand that either, and they sing those words too. They sing his contempt for them and dress it up as contempt for their ex, for their perfectly nice parents. Dream wants to scream at the very top of his lungs. ‘It’s not for you, it’s for me, not everything is about you,’ but he’s famous and he’s supposed to be kind. He wants to rip his own hair out when his eyes land on a teenage girl in the front, dancing as if she can’t hear him singing about the death of his mother. 

The lights are too bright and so are the smiles of the audience as they scream for him, hoping that they meet his gaze. Stupid, because they can’t see his eyes, they’re covered because his face is the one thing they can never steal as long as he keeps it covered. They’ve stolen his hair, they’ve stolen his voice, they’ve stolen his words and he wants it all to stop, he screams for it to stop but it chases him into the void. 

He is their doll, their dream boy, their everything— it hurts and all he wants is to sing, to share his words and for people to listen, but people do not understand his melancholy tunes. 

It is their last song, the most popular they’ve ever released, and Dream offers a small grin at the audience. He’s been quite the actor, recently, since the only part of his face the audience can see is his mouth. If it was up to him, it’d be covered by his mask too, but he’s meant to sing and his voice doesn’t travel with the mask covering him. Trust him, he’s definitely tried, but it just never works. 

The screams get louder when the guitar riffs begin to play, and Dream has to hold himself back from physically flinching. No, no, no, it’s all wrong, it’s all wrong, they don’t understand the lyrics. He wants to cry because they just keep screaming, dressing his sad-angry-hurt words up with sparkles and diamonds and everything shiny. “I love you, Dream!” they shout while he sings of his missing childhood friend. He internally cringes as he continues to sing, willing the song to be over. Over, over, over, over, please, he just can’t listen to it anymore because nobody understands what he’s trying to tell them. It’s a cry for help and they’re supposed to understand, they’re supposed to listen to him if they really care but they don’t because he’s not real to them. He is only a doll, made to exist for their eyes only. 

The song ends. He exhales and waves to the crowd before leaving. He knows they’ll chant for an encore, and he also knows that he won’t do it. Not when they don’t listen to him, not when they twist his words so ugly. He doesn’t do encores because they don’t deserve it. People who do not listen do not deserve to hear. 

He can still hear their screams as he enters the dressing room, a communal little room for the whole band. They’d been offered separate ones, but it’s just easier with all of them in the same room. As much as Dream may hate to perform, might hate every single one of his fans with a burning passion, he does really like his band mates. They’re all incredibly intelligent, they’re all so passionate and kind. He feels relaxed near them, and he watches as they all remove their masks. They only wear them to match him, only because he’s asked, and they’ve never once complained. He doesn’t deserve them, he knows, as he is controlling and they do not deserve to be held on reins, but control is the only thing Dream knows. 

“Good show?” Their guitarist, Karl, offers. His voice is very hesitant, and it’s quite clear that he knows it was nothing of the sort. It was not a good show, because no show is ever a good one, and they all know that. 

Dream levels Karl with an unimpressed stare. Karl shoots him a sheepish smile. “No.” Dream says, and Karl shrugs as if to say ‘well, I tried’. 

Dream pulls his mask off, sighing loudly as he has to wipe sweat from his face. Just one of the many downsides of wearing the mask— it’s fucking hot under that thing, and sort of uncomfortable. It squishes at his nose like nobody’s damn business, but it’s a small price to pay for a semblance of privacy. He holds the mask out, staring at it for a long moment. It’s a round thing, made of paper mache, with a crude smiley face drawn over it in black sharpie. It’s simple, and it has also become his brand over the years. Some people say that it’s creepy. Good for them. 

Sapnap grins as he moves into Dream’s field of vision. Sapnap is only a stage name, but Dream doesn’t like to call him by his regular one. He is Sapnap in the same way that Dream is Dream, because that is certainly not his real name. Nobody needs to know his real one, though. It doesn’t change anything about his music and about the band. People want to know so badly, and Dream doesn’t quite understand why it’s anyone’s fucking business. 

“Your voice sounded nice, though.” Sapnap offers with a warm smile. He’s nicer after shows, not so much bent out of shape on energy. The constant drumming must tucker him out, or something, because he is always at ease after a show. Kind, unlike his normal state. Dream thinks it’s a little bit weird. 

“Thanks.” Is all Dream says, because he doesn’t take compliments very well. 

“Jeez, brighten up,” he hears a familiar voice say, and it’s not as if he’s not expecting the small smack that lands itself on the back of his head. “You did great. Accept the compliment like a normal person, now.”

Dream huffs and shoves Puffy’s hand out of his hair, but she only laughs and ruffles it again. Her stage name is Captain Puffy, but they call her Cee most of the time. That’s not her real name, not even close to it, but it’s a nickname they came up with the moment she joined the band and it sort of just stuck. 

“Thank you very much, Cee. You are the light of my life and also the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on.” 

She hits him again with a loud snort, then floats across the room to pull off her admittedly uncomfortable outfit. Dream decides it’s probably time for him to do the same and he pulls the tight leather shirt off of him. Yeah, that’s right. A leather fucking shirt. He wants to fire the designer who forced him into this thing, but he’s not cruel and he’ll be completely honest, it does look fantastic. He just hates the way it sticks to his skin and makes a horrifying sound as it peels from him. 

“It sounds like you’re getting waxed,” Karl laughs, voice somehow obnoxious and melodic at the same time. Dream flips him off. 

“Fuck off.” He deadpans, leaning back into the couch that had been shoved into the room. 

A couch being in the room is the only demand the band really has when it comes to the venues they book. It’s comfortable and a good way to wind down after the show, so they always ask for one. If the venue doesn’t have one, the band normally pays for it. It’s not the money that’s the problem, more the comfort. Dream watches as Karl sinks into the sofa, a quilted blanket wrapped comfortably around him. His fluffy hair is huge and frizzy, and Dream smiles warmly as he watches his friend sink into a well deserved sleep. 

Karl is the only member of their band whose name is public, only because he is the newest member and was already somewhat well known before he’d joined. There was no hiding his identity, but he always wore a mask during shows just to fit into their fun little aesthetic. Dream smiles as he watches Karl snore away, a small bloom of adoration existing in his chest. 

“Isn’t he so sweet?” Puffy asks with a wide grin, fitting between them on the couch. She’s always been pretty touchy and it’s not as if Dream minds when it’s his bandmates, so he doesn’t push her away when she moulds herself into his side.

“Sweet like poison,” Dream mutters, but he’s snickering all the same.

“No, Dreamie, you have to be nicer to Karl.” Sapnap snickers. Dream chucks his dumb leather shirt at Sapnap, who groans and chucks it on the floor. “Fucking gross, dude,” He whines.

“Oh, Dream, Sam wanted me to tell you something.” Puffy begins, and Dream groans preemptively. It’s not like he’s got a huge problem with Sam, or anything. He’s their manager and he’s honestly really good at his job, it’s just that Dream’s never been the best with any figures of authority. 

“Yeah?” He prompts.

“We need a single out pretty soon. Sales are down recently, according to his number crunching.”

Dream groans. Now he’s got to write another goddamn song.


	2. take a slice.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dream used to hate interviews. now, he's not so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi!! thank you so much for the support on chapter one, you guys made me excited to write this next one! 
> 
> (the song for this chapter is take a slice by glass animals!)

The page is unbelievably blank. Dream wants to chuck it out the trailer window.

He would, actually. It certainly wouldn’t be the first notebook that’s ever been victim to his frequent tantrums. Countless of them have been chucked out windows, at walls, at Sapnap’s unsuspecting head. Sapnap always tells him that one day they’ll go into debt due to the sheer amount of money they waste on notebooks for Dream— ones that never get completely filled because he’s always frustrated with the words that sit on their pages.

Not enough and too much, not enough and just far more than he’d ever intended. He’s careful with his lyrics, because he knows that they’ll be scrutinized and read into like a real person didn’t write them and some kind of machine did. Dream thinks maybe this whole band thing would be far easier if he was just that— a machine, whirring instead of feeling. Maybe then his words would finally be perfect, cookie cutter and what everyone wants. He doesn’t want to serve them, but that’s what famous people do, and he’s famous despite the fact that he’d much rather be anything else. Perfect words are what they want and it’s what they’ll never get. ‘I’m a person!’ He wants to scream it until they finally leave him alone but they never will. Never, never, never. 

Dream scowls at the blank page. He wishes it’d goddamn fill itself in, because he’s sick of it. What’s the point of writing words that nobody else is going to understand? Not even his bandmates understand the words he writes, and it frustrates him to absolutely no end. He knows it’s because he writes in a language of exaggeration and simile— he paints vivid pictures that make sense to nobody but him, and somehow, people just eat it up. 

He sighs and rips the blank page from the book, crumpling it beneath the pressure of his hand. Puffy sits across from him, and she purses her lips at his frustration. 

“No luck?” She asks, and she seems to know not to ask anything else. Last thing she wants is to be subjected to another infamous Dream rant. 

“Not one ounce of it.” He grumbles, tossing the crumpled paper in the general direction of the garbage can. He then grabs the notebook and throws it too, because he’s more than sick of looking at it. 

“It’s not like you have to write the whole thing now. Stop throwing a tantrum for five seconds, please.” Puffy sighs. She stands to pick up the notebook, and Dream momentarily feels bad for pitching a fit. The feeling doesn’t last very long, though, as she fixes him with a look reminiscent of a mother scolding a young child. 

He hates to be treated like a child, even when he’s definitely acting like one, so he offers her nothing but a scowl. She places the notebook back down in front of him and grips her mug of coffee, knuckles going white with the pressure she applies to the ceramic. She never shows her frustration on her face, but it’s always quite evident in the way that she carries herself. She is always tense when frustrated, and Dream observes that as he searches for a way to explain. 

“I don’t—” He starts, but he curls in on himself rather quickly. Puffy sighs, like she’s disappointed. He wouldn’t blame her if she was. “I don’t have anyone left to write about.” 

She raises an eyebrow at him, then, and he feels like maybe she’s peering into the very depths of his soul. He wants to stand and run away, away from her eyes and Karl’s eyes and Sapnap’s eyes and everyone else’s, but eyes are made to see and they will do that whether he lets them or not. His heart pangs with the idea that he’ll love his whole life in front of others and not in front of himself.

“What do you mean?” She asks. 

“Every song I’ve written has been about someone I know.” He mutters. “I don’t know who else to write about.” 

Puffy laughs. It’s a comforting sound, boisterous and loud, and Dream relaxes under the weight of it. The familiarity of the sound pulls him in. 

“Me. Write one about me!” The mischievous glint in her eyes tells Dream that she’s only joking, but he colours under her stare.

“Well— I already did, actually.” He mutters, sort of embarrassed. Her eyebrows raise. 

“What? Hey, what the hell? Let me read it!” She grapples for the notebook which he holds far above his head, safe out of her reach. He watches with a grin as she stands, huge head of hair flowing behind her as she moves to tackle him. He snorts and pushes her back by the forehead. 

“You’ve already heard it, idiot.” He snickers. She pauses.

“What?” 

“It’s long been released. I just didn’t tell you that it was about you.” He says, and something in him has softened considerably. The notebook doesn’t feel as heavy in his hand anymore, not with his friend smiling at him like she doesn’t know how awful he is. 

“Which one?” She asks, and Dream feels the need to tell her even though he never quite has before. 

“Cirrostratus,” He offers. It’s sort of embarrassing, actually, and his eyes glaze over with something like defence because what if she thinks that’s strange?

Cirrostratus is a song Dream wrote at the very beginning of their existence as a band. One of their first real hits, and still a bestseller to this day. The public knows cirrostratus to be about a mysterious lover of Dream’s, but that’s not it at all. It’s about a girl with hair as fluffy as a cloud, who floats above him to keep him right in check. It’s about relinquishing control, about letting people care for you even when that might be the most difficult thing you can muster. 

Puffy softens considerably, and it’s like they’ve flipped some sort of switch. She smiles, a warm expression that uproots Dream’s soul and really makes him sort of uncomfortable. 

“Really?” She asks, eyes wide and smile growing by the second. Dream just shrugs. 

He wants the conversation to be over. Over, over, over, he’d said too much again, let everything leak out of him like he’d forgotten to turn off the faucet. He doesn’t know why he told her that— he’d been hiding it for a reason, and the fact that it’s now out in the open terrifies him like nothing else does. Whenever they perform Cirrostratus, she’ll know that these words were packaged up and delivered to her, all of the admiration and friendship in Dream’s heart now unwrapped and waiting for her to devour. 

He opens his mouth to answer her, but apparently the lord above is on his side when Sam opens the door to the trailer. “Dream. Interview. Come on.”

He groans and pulls the mask over his face. Puffy frowns. 

— 

Dream hates interviews. This should not come as any sort of surprise, because he’s a rather private guy. He hates fame and everything that comes along with it, and he would turn down every interview offer if it weren’t for Sam. Sam is a good guy, but he’s sort of materialistic in the way that only band managers can be. It’s a unique kind of materialism, not unlike greed but also not the same, and Dream can’t quite figure it out. Whatever. 

Sam tells him on the way to the small room where the interview will take place that the magazine had paid a large sum of money to be able to talk to Dream and that they’d actually been rather persistent. Dream only sighs and tells Sam to shut up. 

“We’re here. Please, try not to be a raging dick to the interviewer.” Sam mutters, face pulled into an even frown. Dream doesn’t respond verbally, only shrugs as he’s ushered into the room.

The first thing he notices is the interviewer, sitting ramrod straight in the chair across from the one Dream is meant to be seated in. The dude is… sort of strange looking, and that’s coming from the man wearing a dumb smiley mask. It’s saying something, really. His hair is fluffy, and Dream has the small thought that he wants to run his fingers through it because it just looks so touchable and—

Huh? What the hell was that?

Dream pretends the thought didn’t just cross his mind. Instead, he decides that it’s in his best interest to focus on the way the interviewer’s sunglasses look super dumb. Dumb, not charming. Not charming at all.

“You’re late,” the interviewer mutters, contempt clearly written on his lips. The frown on his face says ‘fuck you, Dream’ and Dream wants to melt. 

“Sorry.” He sighs, and the interviewer still has not looked at him. “What’s your name?” He asks. 

Why did he ask that? Why did he ask that? Dream, why the hell would you ask that? He’s spent his entire career in perfect bliss, watching the world revolve around him. If he ever needed to know somebody’s name, he never needed to ask for it. He’d always forget it once he didn’t need to know anymore— so why now has he decided that he wants to know this person’s name? This person who doesn’t want to look him in the eyes like everyone else does, who frowns in his presence like Dream is not above him. 

“George.” He says plainly. “Please sit. We don’t have a lot of time.” 

Dream hates orders. He’s absolutely sure he does. So why, then, does he nod and sit without a word? Why does he believe George could tell him to do absolutely anything and he would, no questions asked? It’s startling beyond understanding, like maybe Dream’s brain was switched with someone else’s overnight. 

“So, Dream,” George begins, and Dream sucks in a nervous breath. He’s not good with words unless they’re spilled across a page.

“Yes. That’s me.” He says. George finally looks at him, frown stretching even further across his features. 

“I hear you’re working on a new song.” The tone of George’s voice is bored. Dream finds himself incredibly offended, even though he’s always held a certain contempt for overzealous interviewers. 

Does George not want to know things about him? Does he not want to cut Dream open and tear him apart like everybody else does? The thought is alarming. Dream doesn’t know why, but the idea that George does not want to see inside of him makes him feel murky, like his thoughts are spinning together in his head. For once, he’s saying ‘look at me’ rather than ‘get away from me’.

“Sort of.” Dream says. George gestures for him to continue. “I don’t really have anything to write about right now.” 

George nods and notes the words down in his notebook. Dream finds that this is another notebook he wants to throw out a window— he wants George to look at him, not this stupid book. 

“What do you normally write about?” George asks. He still looks uninterested. 

“Past lovers.” This is a blatant lie. Not once has Dream ever written a song about one of his exes. He doesn’t know why he says it, actually, but George looks up. One of his eyebrows raises above his dumb sunglasses.

“That’s not true.” He says. Dream wants to run away very suddenly.

“What?” He asks. What he really wants to ask is ‘where have you been all this time?’.

“Name me one song you’ve written about an ex lover.” George’s voice is still deadpan, like everything Dream says is just absolutely ridiculous.

“Cirrostratus.” He only says it because he’d been talking about it before. It’s not about an ex lover, it’s about a caring friend, but it can be read both ways— it’s not actually supposed to be read both ways, but people do it anyways. 

“No. I think you know that’s not true.” George sighs, leaning back in his chair.

“How do you know?” 

“I’ve listened to your songs, man. The words speak for themselves.” 

Dream doesn’t know if he wants to run away or stay in this moment forever and ever. He only laughs in return, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess you’re right.” 

“So, let’s start over. Hi, my name is George, and this is an interview for The Rolling Stone. Please, tell me the truth this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh dreeeeaam... it looks like ur falling in love rather quickly buddy! we all know how that turns out smh..
> 
> hope u like this chapter lol thank you for reading!!


	3. new perspective.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the interviewer may inspire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello welcome back :] 
> 
> no george this chapter but he will be back very very soon! more relationship building and plot development fo today

“Dude, what the hell is this?”

Sapnap stands menacingly in front of him, holding a magazine in his hand. Dream groans preemptively, because he already knows this conversation is going to be hell.

“My interview. Obviously.” His voice is deadpan and he accompanies his sarcastic words with a scoff. He’s sort of surprised that Sapnap doesn’t lean in and punch him in the face.

The interview had gone as well as expected— Dream accidentally spilled his guts worth of information to a man he’d never met before, only because he understood like nobody ever had before. It’s the best (or worst, depending on your standpoint) interview Dream has ever given, so ripe with information and vulnerability. The thought of it makes him want to spill his guts again, but in a different, much grosser way.

He looks up at Sapnap, frown evident on his face. He’d said so much, offered himself on a silver platter to a man who held a perpetual frown. He wants to tear his own hair out as he considers this mysterious man, as he thinks about how much he knows. This man has seen inside of Dream, has seen his thoughts and now they’re public, sprawled across the page of some stupid magazine. Dream wants to rip it to shreds. He wants to run it through the shredder and never think about it ever again, because it’s haunting. It’s haunting and he feels the ghosts of those famous before him telling him to leave, to get out while he still can.

The faces of his friends tell him it’s too late, though, that he can’t back out now because why would he ever? He’s in too deep, his words gone from his voice box. They know; why would he hide when they know?

Sapnap sighs. “A good interview. A fantastic one, actually. Who are you and what have you done with my Dream?”

Dream scoffs, but his heart isn’t really in the banter. His mind is going at four miles a minute rather than its normal one. He beats himself up over everything he does normally, but this is just the straw that breaks the camel’s back. He’s never been seen like this before, not even by Sapnap who has known him for upwards of ten years. Sapnap has never known him like this interviewer does, and as Dream looks up to his friend, he notices the poorly disguised hurt in his eyes.

His eyes say ‘why don’t I know these things about you?’ and Dream finds himself wanting to run away from the piercing gaze. He loves Sapnap. He loves him, he swears, so why can’t he find it in himself to show it just this once?

“Your Dream is right here.” Dream deadpans, shifting in his seat. It’s an uncomfortable scrutiny that he’s found himself under, Sapnap’s golden eyes tracing over him like they’re undressing his brain.

“My Dream gave out an interview containing real information. Forgive me for being surprised.”

Dream snorts, a small grin making its way onto his face. Of course, leave it to Sapnap to make him smile even when it feels like his entire world is collapsing around him. It’s part of the reason they get along so well, Dream thinks, because Sapnap always seems to be there to remind him that things don’t ever need to be so serious. Sapnap reminds him to let loose, and also that as much as it may feel like it, the world doesn’t always revolve around just Dream.

They’d had countless fights in the past, screaming matches that ended with ‘it isn’t always about you, Dream’. The words never made sense before, because Dream lives in his world and nobody else’s. He lives in his own personal hell, where everything is indeed about him, but sometimes he’s humbled by Sapnap’s words. Sometimes he thinks about it and remembers others are there, and they exist, and not everyone only wants to see inside of him. Not everyone spends their time praying on his downfall or deciphering every little word he puts out there.

“I don’t know what happened, actually,” he shrugs because sometimes shrugging is all he can do. He looks down to his lap as he hears Sapnap open the magazine again.

“ _Cirrostratus was a song that the public really misinterpreted.”_ Sapnap reads, eyebrows raised to his goddamn hairline. _“People think I was madly in love with the person I wrote that about. Not true.”_

Dream gestures for Sapnap to continue, because if he’s going to be stripped of all secrecy he’d rather it be now when Karl isn’t around to make fun of him for it.

_“I wrote it about Captain Puffy, but there’s never been anything like that between us. She feels like a… a mother figure, I guess.”_

Sapnap seems to decide that this has been enough psychological torture for now, and he closes the magazine. He leans back in his seat, looking like a goddamn idiot, and it’s like he wants something from Dream with the way he eyes him.

“Yes. Thank you, Captain Obvious, for reading to me my own words.” Dream says. He mimics Sapnap’s position, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. Sapnap cracks a grin and Dream returns the gesture.

“Seriously, dude. Did this interviewer have you at gunpoint or something?” Sapnap asks.

Dream laughs at this, leaning forward to place his elbows on the table and his chin in the palm of his hand. “Yes. Sapnap, it was terrifying. He put a gun to my head and said ‘you, Dream, of the hot rock band the NotFound, must tell me all of your secrets or I will shoot you’. That’s a direct quote. Verbatim.”

Sapnap snickers. “I bet you begged for your life. Took off your mask and everything, too.”

“Oh, yeah, he asked to see my face and I took my mask off. He then lowered the gun and we proceeded with the interview.” Dream tries his best to be serious, like he’s telling a story about something that actually happened, but the thought of that skinny ass interviewer holding a gun up to his head is the equivalent of a dog holding a knife. Not threatening and sort of cute.

Dream decides not to think about the implications of him calling this interviewer cute. He decides to actually completely ignore that thought, eyes trailing to his notebook that sits in front of him.

He reaches over, eyes glowing. Sapnap grins.

—

The words don’t rhyme. They’re not exactly meant to— the song is supposed to symbolize the panic of being understood, of being seen in a very uncomfortable way. He’s not sure if it reads like that, but he finds himself not caring as he thrusts the notebook into Karl’s hands.

Karl helps Dream write music. They’re a good team in a creative sense, because they make up for each other’s missteps. Dream is not musically talented in the least. He’s normally the last person to perfect a progression of notes, always the last to memorize the timing and beats. Karl is the opposite. He’s musically brilliant, coming up with unique tunes and drumming up melodies on the spot, like he’s fucking Apollo or something. It’s actually beyond irritating sometimes, especially now, when Karl immediately begins humming a melody under his breath.

“Are you going for a disco type of theme or something?” Dream asks, because the tune is reminiscent of the tunes he used to hear when he’d go to the club. He never really did much at those clubs, would only sit with a drink and observe, but it was better than home where his room was the only place he could go to feel comfortable. Sometimes his bed simply got a bit boring.

“I don’t know. Was the first thing that came to mind.” Karl responds, a contagious grin growing.

They’ve never really done any fun songs before. It’s always been serious rock music led by noise. It’s always been emotion on top of emotion instead of something fun, and the idea that they can create something genuinely fun makes Dream’s head spin. Karl is lowly singing the tune, Dream’s scared words disguised with a bouncy tune. Dream smiles— he can already picture Puffy on the fun bassline, Karl switching his Les Paul out for a much funkier Strat.

Karl dances towards him, with the melody seemingly figured it out. He grabs one of Dream’s hands and spins him, around and around until Dream has to shove him off because Jesus Christ he’s dizzy. Karl only laughs and continues to dance, sailing across the beat like he always does. Dream wonders how the guy survives when his brain is full of nothing but music.

He watches Karl dance himself out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Dream calls, laughing.

“I’m going to sing to Sappy!”

—

“What’s the song called?” Sam asks, reading over the words in the notebook. He seems impressed. Confused, maybe, about the way the words are scatterbrained and so clearly written with a pair of rose tinted sunglasses.

“Don’t know yet.” Dream shrugs. They still only have a melody and a bit of a bassline built out, but the song is interesting. It is so goddamn interesting, and Dream has never really felt this way about one of his pieces before.

Sam nods. “Why disco?” He asks.

“Don’t know. Ask Jacobs.”

Sam looks over to Karl, who sits with Puffy’s bass in his hands playing out a funky little progression of notes. He sings along with it, and it’s so exciting, Dream’s heart wants to swell. He bops his head, taps his foot against the floor, and suddenly he’s singing too. Sam looks confused, and his bandmates are grinning at him like he’s made of sunshine and everything kind. He grabs Puffy’s hand and pulls her up, so she laughs and starts to shimmy against him. Sapnap joins, soon enough, and Dream feels at peace with them dancing by his side.

“This is so fucking good, Dream,” Sapnap grins, and he spins Puffy around because Dream has since passed her off to him.

“You think so?” Dream says.

“Oh, come on. Now’s not the time to be humble, you idiot.”

Dream laughs at this, flicking Sapnap across the forehead. He’s not sure what he’s meant to do with the compliment because he’s really never been the best with accepting them. They’re foreign, especially ones so well meaning as the ones Sapnap sends him. It’s a strange feeling that makes him a little bit floaty.

Maybe if he wasn’t perpetually tethered to the ground, he’d one day float into the sky and be gone from this place. In this fantasy, the mask stays on the floor and so does his fake identity. When he finally reaches the sky, passes the level where oxygen ends, he can finally breathe. He inhales the new perspective, and he sees George the interviewer across from him.

He looks proud, like Dream has done what George expected. He smiles for the first time, in this fantasy, and his sunglasses stay on the ground too. His eyes are every colour in one, swirls of brilliance just as Dream expects.

He must be smiling stupidly, heart filling like a balloon, because the music stops and all four of them are smiling at him more than they ever have before.

“Who’d you write it about?” Puffy asks.

Dream shrugs. “That’s not important.” But the smile remains on his face because now he knows that the sky is where he belongs, floating along.

“Helium.” He says. “Let’s name it Helium.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> according to ao3 statistics, only a small percentage of people who read my works actually comment and leave kudos. if you enjoyed this, please comment and leave kudos. it’s completely free and you can always change your mind later :]


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